


needle in a haystack

by erebones, losebetter



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, Making Out, Missing Scene, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quiet Sex, Temperature Play, Trans Male Character, exhibitionism (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/pseuds/losebetter
Summary: Caleb has cold hands. Fjord knows how to make it better.





	needle in a haystack

**Author's Note:**

> us, frantically trying to finish all our ideas before we run out of steam completely,

Caleb can see his breath in the air. In the dim, transient light of the torch flickering at the end of the narrow hall, it wisps from his mouth like smoke, echoing the chill that’s starting to settle in his bones. It’s cold. It’s _freezing_ cold.

He hears a burst of scattered laughter from the girls’ room, Nott’s among them, and his thumb turns faster against the well-worn surface of his transmuter’s stone. It’s set to darkvision at the moment. He should probably change it to heat. He should probably not just stand here in the hall alone like an idiot, waiting for a small hand to tug him out of the dark.

It’s just—well. He rooms with Nott. Always has, even before there were rooms to be _had_ , the two of them curled together like newborn pups in the arms of the forest, bedded down in rotting leaves and dark, fresh loam. When they camp out these days, they lay their bedrolls down together beneath the tiny hut’s domed roof. He is used to her sleep-talking, her sharp elbows, the occasional eerie glow of her eyes when he wakes up to find her muttering over some collection or other. The prospect of going without is abruptly off-putting.

He gives himself a few minutes to dilly-dally before steeling himself and walking abruptly through the door to the “boy’s room.” Despite his flustered entrance, the other two don’t seem to notice, and he is left standing between a stretching Fjord and the space where Caduceus is adjusting his firm bedroll, the victim of yet another uncomfortably personal decision.

What he does with Fjord is—they aren't _hiding_ it, but it's… private. Private largely for Fjord's benefit, in fact. He doesn't think Caduceus would judge them for it, certainly, but—

He looks to Fjord for guidance, and his warm heart does a flip in the cold cage of his chest when Fjord's expression turns soft, welcoming, beckoning him closer with a gesture. Caleb steps carefully through the hay, uncharacteristically concerned that he might step in mud or shit (he's bedding down with Fjord, after all, and he'll steal moments of undiluted sweetness and comfort wherever he can get them), and Fjord reaches for him as he draws near, hand cupping the tender crook of Caleb’s knee in welcome.

“Hey there, stranger,” he drawls softly. “What took you so long?”

“Needed a piss,” Caleb says, blunt-edged to muffle the softer truth. Whether Fjord believes him or not doesn't matter—only that he is kind enough to pretend.

Fjord's eyes crinkle up at the edges, fond, faintly glowing in the pale dark. The only source of light is a twilit purple glow emitting from Caduceus’ staff, and a bit of moonlight sneaking stubbornly between the poorly-placed slats that serve for walls. Another whisper of wind passes through them and Caleb shivers, hunching his shoulders against the chill. “C’mon then,” Fjord murmurs, and his claws prick bluntly into the tender meat of Caleb’s hamstring. “Lay down with me.”

One more glance at Caduceus—but the firbolg has already settled himself in his own pile of hay, seemingly unbothered by the rough digs—and Caleb begins the laborious process of unclasping his book holsters, fingers made stiff and useless with cold. Fjord takes them wordlessly, one by one, reverent, and tucks them carefully into his bag of holding.

Despite the chill and his eagerness to escape it, Caleb is slow to bed himself down in the hay at Fjord’s side, taking his time with the silver thread. The straw is fresh at least—small mercies. Either that, or his nose is too cold to smell the dank and must as he crawls into the pile. Fjord is not nearly as hesitant as he, and brings him easily into the circle of his arms. Caleb wrests free of his coat and settles it over them both before shoving his ice nose into the crook of Fjord’s neck.

“Cold?” Fjord murmurs, voice soft and thin with concern.

“B-bit. It’s fine.”

“Thought you were made for this sorta weather.” Fjord nestles his chin against Caleb’s forehead, one broad, warm hand soothing up the fragile tremors of his ribs. “Puny little human…”

Caleb huffs. “Is the City of Beasts rubbing off on you, Fjord?”

“Pff. Never.” Despite the confident squeeze at his waist, Fjord’s voice is faintly disgruntled. Caleb wants to press, but perhaps now is not the time. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe and warm.”

Caleb's mouth tilts up, and he forms his shivering into a murmur: " _Eeeellldrietsch Bl_ —ah!"

There’s a soft, playful growl up against his hair. "You makin' fun of me, Widogast?" Fjord rumbles, and Caleb squirms, biting back laughter, as he's pulled in impossibly closer. "You don't think that's a little… _dangerous_?"

"You wouldn't hurt me," he says - he intends it as a dare, wiggling around in the grip of Fjord's sturdy arms, but his quiet tone softens it. In the few seconds it takes for unguarded joy to briefly take over Fjord's expression, Caleb realizes that he even believes it.

“Huddle in, then,” Fjord says briskly, enfolding him with ease into the circle of his arms. Caleb makes a little contented noise and burrows again beneath his chin. Fjord is _warm_ , a bulwark against the frost and the prickling hay, and it’s easy to wriggle close and stuff his frigid hands in the front of Fjord’s vest—

“ _Sssst!_ ”

“Oh, sorry.” Caleb yanks his hands away, curling them stiffly against his own chest.

“No, it’s all right.” There’s a low chuckle in his ear, muffled like it’s been half-swallowed back, like he’s trying not to betray a secret. “If your hands are cold I can think of somewhere else you can put them.”

Caleb shoots him a dirty glare, certain he’s joking, and is taken aback at the shy moue of sincerity Fjord wears. “I’ll put them in your mouth if you don’t behave,” he mutters, neck hot and prickling. On the far side of the room he can hear Caduceus snoring, deep and even, but here, nose to nose, Fjord is radiating heat and a strange, flirtatious energy that Caleb hasn’t seen since their travels brought them into more dangerous lands.

“If you want to,” Fjord whispers back, mollified.

“Caduceus…” Caleb starts half-heartedly. His fingers are _so cold_ —he can’t even feel the tips anymore.

“Sleeping.” The exhale of those syllables is soft against Caleb’s forehead, stirring the hair that falls over his brow. The pressure of Fjord’s lips, soft and undemanding, are quick to follow, and Caleb makes up his mind.

He feels a bit foolish, at first. Fjord is so much taller than him, even curled on his side, that Caleb has to fold himself lower in the hay, each rustle like a siren in his ears. But Caduceus sleeps on. And Fjord, with a gentle touch, takes his wrists and coaxes Caleb’s hands between his thighs.

Caleb has to hand it to him—it _is_ incredibly warm. Fjord twitches and exhales, squeezing Caleb’s fingers. The fabric of his leggings is soft and worn here with the daily friction of his thighs, and a little bit damp with sweat. And maybe something else. With a quick glance up at Fjord under his lashes, Caleb finds the neat row of little bone hooks and opens a small space in the front of Fjord’s leggings.

“Sure?” he whispers in the dark.

Fjord exhales a strangled sound that might be a laugh. “Please.”

Damp curls meet his knuckles, then hot, _so_ hot, hot enough it almost hurts. Caleb bites his lip and pets him there, dragging the pads of his fingers back and forth, slow. His wrist is compressed in the clasp of Fjord’s thighs and, after a fumbling moment, Fjord finds Caleb’s waist beneath his shirt and holds on for dear life.

“So warm,” Caleb murmurs, whisper-soft. He can’t see anything anyway, only feel—and that feeling is _electrifying_ —so he cranes his head up and nuzzles a little kiss to the hollow of Fjord’s throat. Fjord makes a faint gulping whine, and Caleb tsks under his breath. “You have to be quiet, _liebling_.”

“I know,” Fjord hisses back. He’s trembling a little, like he’s trying to keep still. The slightest movement is enough to set the hay to rustling, so Caleb holds his breath and keeps his arm as still as he can as he presses in, deeper, until the root of his fingers abuts Fjord’s pubic bone. Fjord quivers minutely against him and his breath comes harsh through his nose as Caleb uncurls his thumb and rubs it softly upward. “Caleb… _fuck_.”

“Quietly,” Caleb warns.

“Your hand is _freezing_ ,” comes the shuddering reply. He doesn’t sound like it’s exactly a hardship.

“I’ll warm up.” Caleb eases his wrist back and forth slightly, massaging, while his thumb rests gently against Fjord’s swollen clit. If he holds his breath and listens through the pound of blood in his ears he can faintly hear, through layers of cloth, little slick noises as Fjord’s arousal builds.

He wonders what it feels like, the chill, the stark icy touch of his hands. The heat, almost unbearable at first, is starting to soften around his fingers, and the tight clasp of Fjord’s thighs starts to ease as he adjusts. Caleb withdraws a little and presses back in with two fingers, teasing, testing the stretch. Then back out, up, spreading slick between the folds. The movement of his hand gapes the front of Fjord’s leggings slightly, and the warm sea-salt smell of him reaches Caleb’s nose, making his mouth water. He licks his lips.

“If you put your mouth on me,” Fjord breathes against his ear, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stay quiet.”

“Another time,” Caleb whispers back. He plays with Fjord’s clit, circling round and round in one direction, then the other, slow. Fjord is _radiating_ heat now, warm as a roaring campfire, so warm that sweat is starting to gather beneath Caleb’s clothing. He shifts slightly in the hay to relieve some of the pressure and pinches his first two fingers together, light and teasing. Fjord trembles, gnaws his lower lip, eyes glittering in the dark.

Caleb has never really considered himself an exhibitionist, exactly, but he can’t deny the underlying thrill at the possibility of being caught. Without breaking his gaze, he brings his hand up to his mouth and sucks his first two fingers clean, and Fjord makes a very low, very soft noise like he’s just been punched in the gut. He bites hard on his lip immediately after like an apology—but Caleb is not in the business of denying him pleasure, not tonight. Not when time is so short and the night so cold around them, whistling through the cracks in the walls like an invading army.

Instead, with fingers still wet with spit, he worms his hand back between Fjord’s thighs and rubs shallowly between his folds before slipping back in, deeper and more insistent than before. Faint slick sounds rise between them, a counterpoint to the rustle of hay, the soft cacophony of Fjord’s breath surging in his lungs like a restless sea. Fjord’s hips jerk a little of their own accord, but Caleb doesn’t scold him, just hooks his fingers and fucks him deep and fast while his other hand, as yet unused and still blue at the tips with cold, finds his clit.

The unexpected chill moves through Fjord’s body like electricity: he stiffens, shaking, mouth open in an _O_ of surprise and pleasure. A few breaths later and he clamps down around Caleb’s fingers as he trembles and shakes through orgasm. The hay rustles, and goes still. Caleb holds his breath.

Caduceus is still snoring.

“ _Oh_ ,” Fjord breathes at last. He ducks to hide his face in Caleb’s hair and whines faintly at the slow twist of Caleb’s fingers out and back in. Testing.

“All right?” Caleb whispers. He feels Fjord’s mumble of assent more than he hears it. With cold knuckles, he rubs firmly between Fjord’s legs and withdraws his other hand to press his wet fingers into Fjord’s mouth. Fjord groans blatantly and sucks them down, but Caleb doesn’t care enough to scold him. His left hand still moves busily, back and forth, sloppy—and just as Fjord is on the cusp again he stops, spreading him open to the cold night air.

Fjord trembles and whimpers into his hair, begging wordlessly for more, but Caleb holds fast. He can feel the pulse of blood in his groin, can smell him, heavy and tangy over the brittle scent of old hay. With a delicate finger, he teases the hood of his clit, pulling it back to expose him further. Even under Caleb’s coat the air is chilly, and it only takes a few soft rubs against Fjord’s erect flesh to coax another orgasm out of him. This one Caleb rides to the end and beyond, following the rasping-quick breaths puffing against his brow. Fjord tenses and growls and cums again almost immediately, this time accompanied by a small gush of fluid down his thighs. Caleb moans and his fingers move more freely, rubbing quick and light in insistent circles. Fjord’s mouth gapes on a silent cry and he goes tense all over.

“Still _gut_?” Caleb rasps.

“Y-yeah. Fuck—”

The blood is pounding so loudly in Caleb’s ears that he can’t hear anything else. He cranes his head up and kisses Fjord’s slack mouth—after a beat or two Fjord kisses him back, wet and raw, tasting faintly of himself. His thighs squeeze around Caleb’s wrist mercilessly and his hips jerk. There’s a hot spray of ejaculate against Caleb’s fingers and finally Fjord goes still.

Caleb withdraws his hand carefully, cupping Fjord over his leggings to cast a quick _prestidigitation_ and dry his clothes. Fjord hums and presses a lazy kiss to Caleb’s brow. His hand, which has been fixed to Caleb’s waist this entire time, moves beneath his coat to grope the front of his trousers. Caleb bucks into it and nearly swallows his tongue.

“Let me?” Fjord murmurs. “You’ve been so good to me…”

Caleb tries to breathe evenly and soon gives it up for a lost cause, gulping in cold air as Fjord palms his cock through his clothes. Even fully dressed Fjord knows just where to press and rub, and Caleb has to lock his ankles together to keep from kicking him as he spills into his smallclothes after hardly more than a minute. Embarrassing, maybe, but he’s too tired and too blissfully warm to care.

Through the fog of exhaustion and afterglow, Caleb pats and pulls at Fjord’s clothes until the half-orc succumbs with a contented growl and settles firmly against his side, one leg sliding between Caleb’s. He counts his breaths as they deepen and slow. Not quite sleeping, not yet. Just still. Just _being_. Caleb strokes his salt-and-pepper hair back from his forehead and hums, appreciating the gift of Fjord relaxed and unguarded in his arms.

On the other side of the room—the stall, really, Caleb has no cause to be so generous—Caduceus stirs a bit and rolls onto his other side with a grunt. Caleb’s adrenaline spikes briefly. Even with his _puny human_ nose he can smell the lingering funk of sex in the air. He shudders to think what it must smell like to someone with more refined olfactory senses. But Caduceus doesn’t move again, and soon enough the snores pick up again, a low, sonorous rumble that pitches up and down with each breath.

Against Caleb’s body, Fjord begins to purr. The hay is far more comfortable now than it had been several minutes ago, and Caleb lets himself sink into it, into the vibrating heat of Fjord’s weight.

“Cay,” Fjord mumbles, just when Caleb is on the cusp of sleep. Caleb jerks awake, heart skipping a beat.

“Mm?”

“Next time we get a proper inn… you’ll stay with me?”

Caleb blinks sightlessly at the shadowed ceiling. “You want to?”

“Yeah.” Fjord’s nose finds his jaw, and he kisses the same spot a moment later. “‘Less you think Nott would mind.”

Caleb thinks of her excitement at rooming with the girls. Of their final destination. Of what inevitable shifts are already happening in their small group. “I do not think she would mind,” he says at last. His palm finds the precious curve of Fjord’s nape, right where the shorter stubble meets bare skin, and holds him close. “I… would like that. Yes.”

“Hmmmmm good.” Fjord’s purr thrums a little deeper in his chest, a little more insistent. His hand cups Caleb’s hip. “ _Danke_.”

Caleb’s lips curl of their own accord as Fjord is subsumed into sleep against him. Though his body is tired, his mind is now wide awake, moving ahead toward their unseen destination and beyond. Thinking of Fjord’s shy hesitance burgeoning into confidence and care.

Even in his sleep, Fjord purrs, though it subsides briefly at the apex of every inhale. It’s that soft rumble that at last coaxes Caleb off the pier of insomnia to drift away on the tides of sleep. And when he sleeps he dreams of warm, fond kisses, of sunlight, of the whisper of waves on the beach. And though he won’t remember it when he wakes, in his dream he stands on the sandy shoreline and feels the warm blue grasp of hope welling up from the deepest, bitterest places of his heart like pure water drawn at last from a long-poisoned well. At peace.


End file.
